


Crimson Flowers

by chaineddove



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Childhood, F/M, Fairy Tales, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaineddove/pseuds/chaineddove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bethany grows up - and finds that where you're meant to be isn't always where you thought you would end up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimson Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> A Secret Swooper gift fic for [sagacious_rage](http://sagacious_rage.livejournal.com). I have to go on the record and say I have never, ever written this pairing - or Circle Bethany - and spent several weeks panicking before I finally sat down and wrote this. Inspired by the curious phenomenon of fairytales, which transcend cultures and exist in many different incarnations, regardless of where you are.
> 
> I have a _ton_ more to say about this, to be honest, but I won't burden you with it here. There are a lot of references to party banter and backstory, so if you're interested, see the notes at the end!

In the field behind the barn, wildflowers grow. She twines them into crowns and necklaces, bracelets and capes, swiftly fading finery to fuel her fantasies: she is a lady, a princess, a queen. To her sister, who bemusedly allows herself to be festooned with flowers, the fragrant chains are untold riches, and to her brother, who scowls even as he bows his head and allows her to crown him, they are armor. But to Bethany, they are always elegant things, delicate and beautiful, the sorts of things her little heart secretly longs for, even if she will never ask for them. Surrounded by the color and scent of summer, she watches the clouds pass above her head and imagines a place all her own, someplace lovely and full of music, someplace free from fear. She builds castles in the clouds, and she dreams.

***

In the bleak darkness of winter, there is magic, and there are stories. The magic is an inescapable constant; she lights and douses the hearthfire, over and over, under her father's watchful gaze. Her head aches and her fingers tingle and she becomes very cross and tired, watching her brother and sister toast bread and cheese over her efforts. _If you do not control it, it will control you,_ her father tells her every time she fails, a lesson she is unlikely to ever forget. For her, there is no joy in magic; her father has instilled in her a healthy fear of her own power, and her mother, too, looks at her with tragic eyes, so she can never forget that it is no blessing but a curse.

“Bethy, would you fetch me a blanket?” her sister asks, sprawled on the hearthrug.

“That is _not_ what magic is meant for,” Carver immediately protests, and her sister laughs and says, “Do try to lighten up, sourpuss; I'm helping her practice.” With a twitch of her hand and a gust of wind, Bethany sends the blanket flying from the sofa, and if the edge nearly lands in the flames, well, it is not _her_ fault.

The stories come after, and they soothe her nearly as much as the magic frustrates her. She learns to read at her mother's knee, tracing her hands over the words and the faded illustrations, taking comfort in the familiarity and simplicity of good triumphing over evil. When the time comes for stories, her mother relaxes, and the sadness in her eyes retreats, for awhile, as Bethany’s uncertain voice stumbles over the longer words.

Her sister is too wild to be bothered with tales, and her brother too determined to prove himself, but for her, there is solace in the familiar. She likes to think that perhaps she, too, will someday find herself rewarded, as the beautiful and good girls in her stories are rewarded. She brushes her hair until it shines, fusses with her simple clothing, and tries desperately to be good.

***

There is an old story she loves, about a nobleman who is very wicked, and is for his wickedness transformed into a horrible beast by a magister who was equally wicked and wished not to share his power. This beast, who was once a man, is so shamed by his frightening appearance that he withdraws from the world, and the wilderness grows around his keep until everyone has quite forgotten that there ever was a lord at all, and the only remaining memory of what has happened is an admonishment for children never to wander into the woods, lest some horrible creature decide to turn them into supper.

In the beast's garden, time has paused, and crimson roses riot unchecked over his walls in an eternal semblance of summer. A merchant who is lost in the woods comes upon this wall, and picks a single blossom for his daughter. The beast is so outraged that he demands the merchant's daughter in payment for the insult, and although the merchant tries to barter with every other item of worth that he possesses, in the end he has no choice but to send the girl, alone, into the woods.

In the beast's keep, locked away from the world and surrounded by magic and summer, the girl prays, and tends the garden, and dreams of home. As time passes, the garden flourishes, and the wilderness retreats, from the beast's soul as well as his garden. She cannot help but notice that the beast is very lonely – and perhaps he is not as wicked as he once was, for he treats her with gruff solicitude – and she comes to care for him a great deal. He, too, takes care with her, and of her, and at his side, slowly her dreams of home fade, until she finds, unexpectedly, that the gate in his formidable wall is open, but she has no wish to leave him.

When her father falls ill, it is the beast who sends her away, but she can no longer be happy in a world without him, and returns to his side. The power and purity of her love for him overwhelm the magics laid about his person, and the beast is once again a man. They marry, and live happily there, among the flowers, away from the cares of a world which has quite forgotten them.

Her father hates this story, though he will never explain why. But Bethany finds it beautiful, this idea that love and solace can be found in the worst of circumstances, that someone pure of heart and steadfast in her faith can tame the darkness which surrounds her, and make of it a garden.

She likes crimson flowers best of all.

***

There is a boy in the village, with kind eyes and a fetching curl to his thick, chestnut hair. She catches glimpses of him, surreptitiously, when she is meant to be praying at her mother’s side. The Chantry has always brought her peace, but lately, she feels an odd flutter in the pit of her stomach, like butterflies beating their wings. She is not permitted to become too friendly with the other villagers, but she cannot help wishing that she could hear this boy laugh. There is little room for laughter in a sacred space, resonant with the Chant.

She has grown up, a little, and her ambitions of being a princess have faded. The castles in the clouds have become cottages, each with a hearthfire of her very own and a garden brimming with flowers, with honeysuckle at the kitchen window and climbing roses blanketing the stones. She dreams now of simple things – of sunlight and flowers in the summer, of merry music and harvest dances as the air fills with the crisp tang of autumn, of someone to hold her close and warm when the snow begins to fall. With the certainty of first love she thinks that this someone surely has a riot of chestnut curls and a kind smile.

Her father and sister never come to services, and although she can tell that her father would prefer it if she, too, remained at home, she refuses to oblige. The chant is beautiful, and full of kindness and acceptance, even for one such as her, and more practically, the Chantry is a rare opportunity to be among others, people who do not know her shameful secret, and thus cannot judge her. The fluttering in the pit of her stomach and her brief stolen glances across the hall remain a secret too, a sweet secret that brings a flush to her cheeks and envelops her in warmth. Her mother still sees her as a child, helpless and in need of protection, and her brother seems to tackle faith with the same fierce determination that he tackles everything else, rendering him entirely oblivious of her impious behavior. Fortunately, her father, with his sharp gaze, is not there to see.

They linger in the village sometimes, after services have concluded. Carver is encouraged to run along and join the games of the village boys, but she remains at her mother’s side – _to assist with the shopping,_ her mother says, but really, it is only to keep an eye on her. She doesn’t mind, particularly; the boys’ games seem too violent for her taste, and she knows her mother worries. Besides, it is nice to chat with shopkeepers and fellow shoppers, to admire bolts of brightly dyed wool in from Denerim, to take part in the day-to-day _normalcy_ that she so deeply craves.

***

She is loaded down with parcels as she exits the dry goods store, and she cannot properly see; she collides with some unseen person and her parcels go flying, as does she, with a shriek. “Oh Maker, I’m sorry, I – ” Speech deserts her as she meets the very wide green eyes of the boy, the same brown-haired, handsome boy she has been thinking of for weeks. She flushes scarlet and scrambles to her feet.

“No, no, I should have been watching where I was… let me help you.” He is perhaps a year or two her elder, and his voice has already deepened. As they collect her packages, she watches him from under her lashes. With a sheepish smile, he straightens at last, bearing a sack of flour and another of sugar.

“No harm done,” she tells him quietly, her heart threatening to jump out of her chest.

“These are rather heavy,” he says in response. “Might I carry them for you?”

All the way home, she feels as though she is walking on clouds.

***

She has, at least, earned dispensation to befriend a few of the neighbors, those whose homesteads are a bit out of the way, much as their own farm is. The neighbor’s daughter, Amelia, comes around the kitchen door as Bethany and her sister are rolling out pie dough, and props her elbows on the windowsill from the outside, clearly in the mood for gossip. “Bethany Hawke, you little vixen, I hear Warren Colline’s been asking around about you.”

Bethany feels the blush travel all the way to the tips of her ears. “I don’t know why. He only helped me set things to rights after knocking me over on the shop steps, that’s all.”

“Oh?” Amelia asks with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Well then, I’m sure you wouldn’t care to know he came around asking who that incredibly lovely girl was, who thought she could haul a sack of flour three miles when she clearly couldn’t see where she was going – ”

“Warren _Colline_?” her sister interrupts suddenly, with an odd look on her face. Bethany thinks she could strangle her, until she continues. “The templar’s brother?” The rolling pin in Bethany’s hands clatters to the floor. “Butterfingers,” her sister says, her tone light and easy, as if to say, _nothing to see here_. Her sister could say the sky is green, and make it seem true and natural.

“Yes,” Amelia says, as though nothing is wrong. “They’ve purchased the old Miller place, you know the one – the _big_ one. His mother bought _three_ of our goats, _and_ a calf, all at once. Paid in silver. They’re doing rather well for themselves, I suppose.”

Bethany knows that another girl – a _normal_ girl – would be excited, even overjoyed, but she only feels heavy as she leans down to retrieve the rolling pin. “I haven’t met his family,” she says lamely; of course she hasn’t, as she makes herself scarce anytime she sights the sun glinting off of armor.

“Well, perhaps you will _soon_ ,” Amelia says, with a wink.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bethany’s sister says, her tone still light as a feather, friendly as a neighbor’s should be. “Bethany’s holding out for a prince; just think what a mess her homestead would be without servants, if she’s eternally dropping groceries and cooking implements!”

Amelia giggles, and Bethany says, “I’m not feeling well. I think I ought to go lie down.”

***

That evening, her sister crawls into the bed across from hers and murmurs, “I won’t tell Father, but _do_ try to be more careful.” What she doesn’t say is clear enough – _you are not to talk to this boy again, of course_.

Bethany, who is curled under her blankets with the old book of stories, tells her, “I know.” The worn illustrations waver before her eyes as she blinks away tears. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, honey.” There is a creak, and the old mattress dips under her sister’s additional weight. Her sister’s arms come around her, and Bethany puts her aching head down on the other girl’s shoulder, and squeezes her eyes shut. “It will be all right,” her sister promises, her voice gentle.

“Will it?” Bethany asks. “Will it, really?” She cries into her sister’s nightgown, bitter tears of longing for a dream that, in some ways, is as impossible as the glittering dreams of her childhood. The simple boy with the chestnut curls and the kind smile might as well be a prince in a faraway castle for all the likelihood she has of allowing him to court her.

After that, she learns the names and faces of every person related to a templar by blood or by marriage, and she keeps her eyes fixed piously on her clasped hands when she attends to her devotions. She never does hear that handsome boy laugh.

***

When Bethany’s father dies, and her mother falls into melancholy, her sister uncomplainingly shoulders the burden. “We will be all right,” she says; it is like a litany now, or maybe a desperate prayer. Bethany thinks she has not heard a prayer more fervent in all of her visits to the Chantry, nor seen a faith more unshakeable than her sister’s as she steers them through the worst times yet. Carver returns from the army, which is a small mercy; she wants him here, but he is an extra mouth to feed. Together, the four of them struggle to reassemble the pieces of their life.

Her father had been a healer, though he had treated his patients with salves and poultices, and had resorted to magic exactly twice in Bethany’s memory – once to save a woman who was in immediate danger of hemorrhaging to death in childbirth, who had been too delirious to notice, and once to set a child’s bone, when the child was unconscious and the mother had been bustled away to the kitchen for an herbal tisane to calm her hysterics. Bethany has had time to learn some small part of his craft, but not nearly enough to take his place. The other two are more hopeless still – Carver’s hands are clumsy with tiny flasks and her sister has been denied entrance to the stillroom ever since the last time she had nearly set the house ablaze. As the store of medicines created by their father’s hands dwindles, so too does the steady stream of customers.

Her sister and brother take on odd jobs in the village, and she takes in mending. Amelia and her brother come by, once or twice, with condolences and fresh-baked bread, but Bethany is old enough to realize that none of this will truly be enough to sustain them, once the last harvest is past and the vegetable plot lies dormant.

That winter is particularly lean. The cow is hungry and refuses to give milk, and Bethany has to supplement the dwindling firewood with magic, just to stay warm. The first time she does this, her mother gives her an unhappy look, and a tear meanders down her cheek. “Would you rather freeze?” Bethany snaps. Her mother shakes her head and continues weeping, her brother looks away, and her sister puts a warm cup of tea in her hands and tells her to drink.

***

The king’s army comes through at the first spring thaw. All of the village homes open their doors and offer hospitality, as is custom, and when the soldiers set out again, her sister and brother head out with them. “Take care of Mother,” her sister says. “We’ll be back before you realize it, with stories to share, no doubt.”

“The army is not a bard’s tale, sister,” Carver says.

“It is what you make of it, I’m sure,” she parries. “Your vast experience of half a year may not have made you merry, but I doubt it will make _me_ sullen.”

“I’ll miss you,” Bethany says. “Both of you.”

“We must go,” Carver says with a frown.

“Just think,” her sister says with a forced laugh. “No irritating brother to steal your pies from the windowsill before they’re cool.”

There hasn’t been any pie in months, but Bethany smiles and says, “I know whose fingers were suspiciously burnt after that incident; do _not_ try to pin it on Carver.”

“We’ll send money as soon as we can,” Carver says, and embraces her.

“Don’t worry about us,” Bethany replies. “It will be all right.”

***

She cannot help but wonder, in the months that follow, if she wouldn’t be better off allowing herself to be taken. Even after the money starts coming, her mother is morose and nervous. Sometimes she thinks that the fear of the Circle is almost too much to bear, that perhaps the reality of it would be almost a relief after so many years of dread. At least then she wouldn’t have anything left _to_ dread, and her mother would stop jumping at every small rustle of animals in the brush and every tread of a neighbor’s boot on the porch. As it is, she wishes desperately that her sister would come home, because she hasn’t the least idea of how to soothe her mother’s frayed nerves. In an attempt to mitigate her mother’s distress, Bethany restricts her outings to brief sojourns into town for food and slightly longer walks in the field behind the barn, where she can hear her mother call.

Spring turns to summer, and the flowers bloom, as they always do. Her fingers still know how to weave the stems together, and she crowns herself with crimson and saffron. She recalls her grandiose childhood ambitions, and wonders why she can never manage to want something she can have.

They both find solace in the Chantry, and sometimes Bethany coaxes her mother to linger there for the majority of the day. The initiates allow them to help with the gardening, sometimes, and one of them – an Orlesian with hair the color of fire – tells stories in her musical voice as they weed, stories of glory and tragedy and great love. Among these women, Bethany allows herself to relax.

If not the Circle, Bethany thinks the Chantry would have her, but that, too, is out of the question. A life surrounded by templars would lead directly to the Circle, anyway.

***

When Lothering burns, she feels curiously empty. Amelia and her family are dead; Sister Leliana and her stories are gone. Her father’s grave remains, but he would not have wanted them to grieve for such a thing. And it is better, in a way, to have her sister and brother back, even under such dire circumstances. At least her mother seems to find a reservoir of inner strength when they flee, and there is hope of a sort that in Kirkwall things will be different.

Her sister, made lean by the war, offers a wolfish grin. “Try not to look so grim.”

Her brother grunts and shakes his head.

Bethany calls up the memory of a smile. It is the best she can do. “And here I thought we were all having such a grand time.”

***

Things are different in Kirkwall, certainly, but she cannot honestly say they are better. Her mother seems preoccupied with everything they have lost, and money is still scarce. Gamlen’s hovel is half the size of the farmhouse that burned, but then again, she rarely comes there except to sleep. Her sister, at least, doesn’t coddle her, and if they are engaging in decidedly criminal activity, well, she is already a criminal by definition, and hunger isn’t particular.

She likes the city, the ladies with their fine things, the gentlemen in velvet coats. She likes the scents of the food stalls in the market and the overlaying tang of salt in the air, coming in from the sea. She likes her new friends, even if Isabela does persist in her attempts to ‘develop’ Bethany’s taste in literature in an entirely inappropriate direction. At least, with these people, there is no need to hide anything about herself, and they do not seem to care one way or another that she can call fire from the sky.

Still, she must always remember to be wary; her head aches from memorizing the names of two hundred templars, and she still can’t keep them straight. Sometimes, especially when they must visit the Gallows for one reason or another, the fear is overwhelming. And sometimes, when things are particularly unpleasant, when their work becomes particularly intolerable, she still wonders if it wouldn’t be better to just give up the charade. Surely the Circle cannot be any worse than crawling through Darktown gutters and hunting down children who are charged with absconding with Athenril’s goods – and even though her sister lets the children go, the incident leaves a decidedly unpleasant taste in Bethany’s mouth.

She asks Aveline for information, searching for confirmation for her continued efforts to remain unnoticed. Aveline cannot tell her much about the Circle, but what she does share isn’t so sinister. Bethany asserts that she is _only_ interested in information, and Aveline pretends to believe her.

***

When her sister announces that she is going to the Deep Roads without her, Bethany wants to protest. She wants to say, _I cannot bear the burden of her fear alone; I cannot do it again._ She wants to beg, to tell her sister the truth: that last time she and her mother were left alone, her mother’s worry nearly drove her to throw herself to the mercy of the templars. But her mother’s face is shining in relief, and her sister’s eyes are strained, and all Bethany can say is, “I hope you’re right.”

As she watches the members of the expedition walk away, she feels set adrift. “Come, Bethany,” her mother says. “Let us go home.”

“Let’s, before Gamlen sells our mattresses out from under us to pay his tab at the Hanged Man,” Bethany says. It is what her sister would say. It is, she hopes, enough to keep them from that terrible, dark and melancholy place they escaped only a few years ago.

***

Her small efforts are not enough.

Oh, things are not quite so bad as they were last time; she spends time helping heal sick children in the Darktown clinic in Anders’ absence, she visits with Merrill when they happen to meet each other in the market, she even lets Isabela drag her to a hat shop one afternoon, though she draws the line at going drinking, after – she’s not a fool, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever be ready for Isabela’s sort of fun. But if she’s gone even ten minutes longer than anticipated, her mother frets. It is as if, Bethany thinks, her sister’s absence has caused time to slip backwards, until she is a small child to be watched at every moment.

Mother and Gamlen fight, at least twice a day. It is a very small house to contain so many arguments; it is a good thing their neighbors are not particular. When they are not fighting, her mother is fretting over Bethany or brooding over Carver. The viscount has not yet responded to their petition, or, more likely, has decided to ignore it. When Athenril comes by, looking for a pair of hands, Bethany jumps at the chance to get out of the house, despite the company she will have to keep.

But even as she picks up the mantle of her old life, as she flirts with a hapless guard to distract him as one of Athenril’s newest lackeys absconds with three boxes of poison, she hates herself. After, she goes to the Chantry, bows her head, and prays for guidance. _I am not strong enough alone. Maker, guide me to the proper path. How can I honor my family when all I can do is sully myself?_

There is no answer, of course. But as she stands, one of the sisters stops at her side and places a hand on her shoulder. She is an older woman, with deep lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and curving around her mouth. Her face is kind, and her eyes are bright. “Maker’s light shine down upon you, child.”

“And upon you,” Bethany murmurs. Before she can nod her head in acknowledgement and edge out of the doors, the sister speaks again.

“Do not forget, child. The Maker in his infinite wisdom has set a course for us all, one we cannot fathom. All will be well.” At Bethany’s startled look, the smile on the sister’s face grows, and the lines scoring her face deepen. “You seemed as though you were troubled.”

“Yes,” Bethany says. “Thank you. I am better now.”

She returns home to find her mother out and her uncle snoring in his bed. She pulls a piece of parchment from the desk, and stares at it for a long time. She dips the pen into the inkwell and reminds herself to breathe. _I am in possession of information regarding an apostate mage in Lowtown,_ she writes, her script neat and elegant, as her mother taught. _I am willing to share this information, in exchange for a guarantee of safety for the mage’s family._

Once the note is penned and has been sent off with one of the children often roaming the streets, looking for work, Bethany walks to her bed in a daze. Her heart is beating as quickly as a bird’s, and she is certain that she will never get to sleep, but when she opens her eyes again, it is morning.

***

When the templar comes for her, she feels an acute sense of relief that her sister is not yet home, a relief which is shattered when the door opens and her sister, dirty and thin and grim, comes striding in. She feels the templar at her side tensing, sees her sister’s eyes widen, and cannot decide whether to laugh or cry, and wants to say, _I’m sorry, you are too late_ , but she is practical; she says only, “Please don’t do anything.” She doesn’t want any more blood on her hands, not even templar blood.

As he leads her away, she doesn’t look back. With her eyes on the cobblestones, she follows him, wondering when the reality of what has happened will truly sink in. The templar doesn’t speak, and she is grateful to him for the lack of conversation. She cannot even bring herself to ask what will happen now; the fear is still present, but has been dampened by a curious sense of numbness.

She stumbles once. He catches her elbow and helps her regain her balance, then withdraws his hand, still silent.

***

The Harrowing is meant to terrify her, she knows, but the demons of the Fade have little to tempt her with, when she has willingly given up everything she loves. The only thing she retains is her power, but power is one thing she has never loved. When she opens her eyes, it feels as though only moments have passed.

The templar who brought her to the Gallows is there, his face white and tense. He looks frightened and unhappy, though she cannot imagine why. The First Enchanter holds out a hand and smiles at her. “Your strength is remarkable.” She feels thoroughly shaky as she clambers to her feet; she cannot recall falling. “Welcome to the Circle.”

It is not until later that she discovers most mages do not wake for at least a day; shortly after that, she works out that they expected her never to wake at all. The assumption that she cannot resist a paltry demon, after all that she has seen, is insulting, but she supposes she cannot blame them for their assumptions; she doubts they have ever encountered an apostate quite like her.

***

The Circle has a chapel, and she makes use of it often. It is a quiet place, and she prays for forgiveness, and wonders just how disappointed her father would have been. She cannot bear to think of her sister’s reaction, or her mother’s grief.

One afternoon, as she leaves the chapel, wiping surreptitiously at the tears on her cheeks, she encounters the templar who brought her here. She bows her head and attempts to walk by him – she finds that the templars mostly leave her alone, as long as she keeps quiet and follows the rules – but he speaks. “It is not right, what they did to you.”

“On the contrary,” she says quietly. “I cannot complain.”

“Most mages have an apprenticeship,” he says. “Nearly a decade of preparation. You had half an hour.”

“I had great deal more than that,” she replies. “I do not think even the First Enchanter would have found my father an inadequate taskmaster. Be that as it may, it is done.”

The templar – Ser Cullen, she can still remember that much from her failed attempt to learn the names of every templar in Kirkwall – looks away and says, almost wistfully, “I knew your cousin. I stood vigil for her Harrowing,” he continues. “As I did yours. She was a remarkable woman.”

Bethany wonders if a mage could ever command so much respect while she is still alive. She does not have to ask which cousin he refers to, of course; the Hero of Ferelden is a legend, but hers is not a story that comes with a happy ending. “I never knew her,” she says.

“You… look a great deal like her,” Ser Cullen ventures. “She was one of the strongest people I ever met.”

“I’m not very heroic, I’m afraid,” Bethany says. “Excuse me, please.”

She can almost feel his eyes on her as she walks away, and the feeling is disconcerting.

***

A month after she has settled into her new life, she receives a parcel. The box is so large and heavy that the young man who brings it up for her is red in the face. She opens it to find books: a scuffed treatise on healing with notes in the margins in Anders’ angular hand, what looks like an adventure novel with a dragon on the cover from Varric, and half a dozen slim tomes with bright and distressing covers featuring unnaturally attractive people in various states of undress, with _we miss you, sweetness,_ scrawled across one woman’s particularly impressive bosom. The woman bears a suspicious resemblance to Aveline. Bethany cannot stop the laughter from bubbling up and out, and it feels remarkably good, to be able to laugh.

Beneath these offerings is an old and familiar volume with a worn cover, her book of children’s stories. She does not recall bringing it from Lothering, but her sister or mother must have remembered it – Gamlen’s house is – was – such a mess that it isn’t even surprising that she didn’t know. She pulls the book out of the box, and a scrap of paper falls out. The note is in her sister’s handwriting, and it says only, _I’m sorry._

She sits there, surrounded by books, and the laughter turns to tears. It has been bearable, even – almost – pleasant some days, but these small reminders of the life she has put away make it suddenly hard to breathe.

That night, she lights all of her candles, and curls into bed with her stories, wishing they were the warm arms of her family – those she was born to, and those she chose.

***

She takes over one of the novice classes when Enchanter Saris is ill, and then keeps on when the children grow attached to her. Their love is a pure thing, warm and comforting, and she enjoys teaching them more than she thought she ever could. She teaches them magic, but also how to steer clear of trouble. A few of them can’t read, so she teaches them that, too. She reads them stories in a sunny corner of the library, smiling in bemusement as the boys and girls squabble over whether they should have the bloodiest of the lot or a romance.

Once or twice, as she reads, she can feel someone watching her. If she looks up at those moments, she finds the intense gaze belongs to Ser Cullen. After this has happened a few times, the children start to whisper, and she has to hush them and bring them back on task.

Others notice, too. Ella draws her aside before dinner one evening and says, “It is said that Ser Cullen fancies you, you know.”

“Said by _whom_?” Bethany asks.

“Oh,” Ella says merrily, “everyone, really. Marta told me just this morning, and if Marta knows – ”

“So does everyone within a mile, if they have ears,” Bethany finishes with a sigh. “It isn’t _true_ , you know. You and Marta will get me in trouble.”

“He doesn’t seem such a bad sort, for a templar,” Ella says. “I’ve never heard of him harming anyone.”

“And that, of course, is enough to recommend him,” Bethany says crossly.

“That, and his rather nice smile,” Ella says flippantly. “Well, if it makes you feel better, Emile’s been telling everyone who will listen that if he could, he’d marry you. _He’s_ not a templar.”

Bethany shudders, thinking of the stuttering, balding man who reminds her consistently of a gaping fish out of water. “I think romance is not in my future,” she says dryly. “Come along, there won’t be anything left if we don’t go now.”

***

It is late and she is curled up with one of Isabela’s books – they are good for comedy, if nothing else – when a knock comes at her door. She nearly spills her tea, for it is unexpected, but manages to call out, “Just a moment!” as she scrambles up and wraps a dressing gown around herself.

She opens the door and blinks in surprise to see Ser Cullen on the other side. “Ser Cullen,” she says stupidly.

“Mistress Bethany,” he responds. He is holding something in his hands, and after a moment he thrusts it at her. “I was in town this evening, and happened to come across – that is, your sister sends this. I might have left it for tomorrow’s mail call, but I thought you might wish to have it sooner.”

It is a small, plain envelope, and Bethany tears it open it to find a letter folded around a spiderweb-thin chain suspending a blood-red ruby carved into the shape of a rose. “My sister’s money has gone to her head,” she murmurs. “Usually, she just buys flowers.”

“She asked that I get this to you tonight,” Ser Cullen says. “I did not realize it was anything but correspondence.”

“Can you imagine,” Bethany muses, “I had entirely forgotten that it was my birthday. I cannot believe I have been here nearly a year.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, and she laughs.

“You could no more memorize the birthdays of every mage in the Circle than I could memorize the names of every templar in the Gallows,” she tells him. “I tried, once. It was time-consuming, and ultimately fruitless.” She puts the chain over her head and tucks the pendant into her dressing gown. “Might I keep it, if I wear it under my robes? I know it is not… uniform.”

“If no one sees it, perhaps there is little harm in it,” he responds after a moment.

“Then it can be our secret,” she replies with a small smile. It may be the warm glow of candlelight, but it seems as though his cheeks redden.

“Ah,” he says, as if fumbling for a safer subject, “I see I have disturbed you. What are you reading?”

Now it is her turn to flush scarlet. “Oh, it is only… I have a friend. She is very… well, I am not sure what the proper word would be. She is a pirate – or she once _was_ a pirate – and she feels herself to be responsible for my education. And my embarrassment, generally.” He keeps watching her, and she keeps growing redder. “Oh, Maker.”

His eyebrows have nearly reached his hairline by this point, and she realizes the cover of the book is quite easily distinguishable, even in candlelight. “That is very…”

“Anatomically… improbable?” she says, as delicately as she can. “I know. Or, that is, I assume so. They are very… well, one cannot call them edifying, exactly, but they are certainly…”

“Non-curricular?” he offers, and she chokes on a slightly hysterical laugh.

“I suppose it depends on the curricula,” Bethany blurts out, then covers her face with her hands. “Oh, Maker, forget I said that, forget I said _anything_.”

“I do not think…” he says. “I feel it is inappropriate for a young lady of the Circle to…”

“Oh, take them,” Bethany says with another giggle. “Take _all_ of them, I don’t care as long as you promise never to mention this to _anyone_.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of her small bookshelf. Isabela’s books are not hard to distinguish – the garish colors and obscene covers are a dead giveaway. As he walks past her to approach the shelf, she says, “I… I suppose you will have to search my parcels from now on.” There is no guarantee that Isabela’s next gift won’t be more outrageous still, and Bethany spares a moment of disappointment for never knowing what it will be.

But he turns around, with the bright volumes stacked in his arms, and regards her with an expression that is almost merry. It is as if he is fighting back a laugh. “I think,” he says, “that this, too, can be our secret.”

***

She has been in the Circle for nearly five years the first time the dwarven assassins come. She is in the Gallows courtyard, walking with Ella and Marta, and then suddenly she has a knife to her throat. She doesn’t scream, just reacts blindly, her instincts regressing to the years of running and fighting for her life. She scatters everyone around her with a blast of energy, but before she can finish what she has started, the templars come, and the adrenaline hasn’t yet faded away when the man who attacked her lies dead on the cobblestones. Ser Cullen and Keran stand over him, glowering. Ser Cullen’s sword is red with blood.

Someone is whimpering – Ella, or maybe Marta, or maybe both – but Bethany only stands there, looking at the body. She raises her hand to her neck, and it comes away wet with blood. “Get inside,” Ser Cullen growls. “ _Now!_ ”

As she is treated in the infirmary, she can hear the bustle outside the doors. The shallow cut on her neck is easily erased with magic, but disquiet remains.

***

That night, as she is returning to her room from dinner, she is stopped by a hand on her shoulder. She turns to see Ser Cullen. “Mistress Bethany,” he says. “I was looking for you. You are to spend the night in the infirmary.”

“But I’m fine,” she insists.

“That is debatable. However, this is not: the infirmary is more easily defensible,” Ser Cullen says grimly.

“Defensible?” she parrots stupidly. “But… but… that man is dead! I saw you kill him! You don’t think…”

“I will come with you so you can gather your things,” he says with a dark look. “Do not argue with me.”

He follows her up the stairs. Her head is reeling. “I am not arguing, only… what _is_ going on?”

He is silent for a few moments, then says, “There has been word from the city. There have been three attempts on your sister’s life – ”

“ _Three!_ ”

“ – All unsuccessful, but it is believed that you are likely to be targeted again.”

“I… but I’ve done nothing wrong!” she exclaims. “What quarrel could they have with _me_?”

“Perhaps their quarrel is with her.” They reach Bethany’s door; she opens it and numbly begins to collect the things she will need for the night. “Perhaps it is something else altogether. I cannot say anything yet, only that I – the templars – would have failed grievously if anything were to happen to you.”

“I see.” She follows him downstairs and into the infirmary. “Will you be standing watch?” she asks.

“Yes,” he tells her.

“Then I shall sleep peacefully, knowing I am safe,” she murmurs. She cannot force the image of his bloody sword form her mind; it has been so long since she has seen violence. “Thank you.”

“Sleep,” he says, just as softly, “and do not fear.”

***

The next day, she finds out that there has been a second attempt to penetrate the Gallows, and Varric sends a letter. After she has read it, it is ultimately Ser Cullen who hears her petition, when the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander’s assistant have brushed her off. “ _Please_ ,” she says clasping her hands in front of her so tightly that her knuckles turn white. “If the circumstances were anything else, I would not ask this. But I must help her. If I do not – ”

“She is not likely to lie back and die,” Ser Cullen says. “Your sister is… formidable.”

“She is all I have,” Bethany counters quietly.

He is quiet for a few unbearably long moments. Then he sighs says, “You do realize that all we desire is to protect you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, and finds she means it; some of the templars are cruel, but he has never been anything but honorable. “But… but you should not need to constantly defend against attacks on _one mage_ – ”

“It is our duty,” he tells her.

“I know a great deal about duty,” Bethany says. “And if you permit this, I will never ask again. Please, I am not unhappy here. You have never heard my voice raised in dissent. You know that I have never attempted to escape. But if the Circle is to be a place of learning, a place of healing, and not the prison others see…”

He sighs again, and looks achingly unhappy. “There was a woman I knew once, who lived happily in the Circle but went from it at the call of duty. I would spare you her fate.”

“I am _not_ my cousin,” Bethany says firmly.

“No,” he agrees. “But you are like her. You are… a bright light in the darkness. The Circle – no, _I_ – would mourn your loss.”

It is so unexpectedly personal that she finds she is struggling to force breath into her lungs for a moment. Then, she steps toward him and places a hand on his cheek. She does not think she has ever touched him before, not in all these years, though she knows she has thought of it, once or twice, when she wakes in the night, lonely. His cheek is rough with stubble, and hot under her fingers. “Then I promise, I will return to… the Circle,” she says; she means, _I will return to you._

“Then trust me to arrange things. Go,” he tells her. “And be safe.”

She stands there for a moment more, then leans in to brush her lips against his cheek, light as a whisper, binding as a promise. Then, drunk on her own daring, she flees the room.

***

It is almost the way it was before, though little things have changed. Aveline seems to have mellowed, and Isabela is watching Bethany’s sister with the sort of avarice that reminds Bethany of the confiscated books. All of the women look older, which she supposes shouldn’t be surprising. Varric doesn’t seem to have changed at all; she tells him so, and he laughs and responds, “Sunshine, long after this lot is old and decrepit, you and I will remain young and beautiful.” Isabela immediately comments on Varric’s chest hair, his virility, and the fact that he is a paragon of manliness, now and forever, and her sister cheerfully offers to shave his chest in his sleep if he calls her old again. They all laugh, and descend into the Deep Roads with a great deal of good cheer.

It is disconcerting, that her days are no longer regimented, and after the second night of camping on stone, she finds herself thinking wistfully of her bed, with its pretty blue coverlet and soft pillow. She thinks of her children, and wonders how they are getting along without her. She hopes that Ella will keep her promise of reading to them. She thinks, too, of Ser Cullen, of the rough skin of his cheek under her lips, of his hazel eyes and his trust in her.

She knows she should be happy for this brief sojourn, that this is freedom; but although she _is_ happy to be held in her sister’s arms, to joke with Isabela and Varric, to listen to Aveline talk – somewhat shyly – of her love affair with Guardsman Donnic, she finds she misses the Circle, with all of its flaws. When Aveline asks her if her life is what she wants, she can tell her honestly, “ I wouldn’t always have said so, but yes.”

And when her sister suggests, quietly, that it would be easy for her to disappear now, while she is out of reach of the templars, Bethany smiles and tells her no.

***

When she returns to the Gallows nearly a month later, it is as if no time at all has passed. The children crowd around her, and she hands out hugs and the small candies she managed to purchase in town just before her return – her share of the spoils is, of course, forfeit to the Circle, and this seems like the best use for it.

When she finally extricates herself from their small, sticky hands, pleading exhaustion and a need to put her things away, she shoulders her satchel once more and begins the long, weary climb up the stairs to the Enchanters’ wing.

She stops in her doorway, astonished; instead of the musty smell of disuse, her room smells of lemon oil and flowers. Her furniture is polished to a gleam, and the top of her nightstand supports an earthenware jug brimming with crimson roses. Propped against the jug is a note. Her heart beats desperately fast as she unfolds it. It says, _I heard these were your favorites._ It is not signed, but it does not need to be.

She sets her satchel down, then sits on her bed and draws the jug into her lap. She thinks that if this were a story, this would be a perfect ending, and she thinks, too, that she has become better at wanting the things she can claim and releasing the things she cannot. She doubts it will be easy, but she remembers the look in his eyes as he watched her go and thinks that she would be a fool to ignore it. She buries her face in the flowers to breathe in the scents of summer and affection, and is happy.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] The title, "Crimson Flowers," is a variant on "The Little Crimson Flower," the Russian title for "Beauty and the Beast." Considering the plot, I thought it apropos.
> 
> [2] Carver ran off to join the army at 15, again according to Bethany. That would have been the year before Malcolm died.
> 
> [3] If you take Bethany to the Qunari compound, she mentions that a Qunari - Sten - killed her best friends in Lothering. Amelia is part of that family.
> 
> [4] In the Kirkwall chantry, Bethany mentions that she misses Sister Leliana's stories. In a letter from Elder Miriam to Leandra, Miriam mentions Bethany helping her weed.
> 
> [5] Bethany did, in fact, know every templar in Lothering, according to one conversation with Aveline. I think learning the names of every templar in Kirkwall would be beyond anyone, though.
> 
> [6] When Cullen talks about "Mistress Bethany's cooperation" and how her family will be spared punishment, I always thought it meant she might have turned herself in.
> 
> [7] The DA:O backstory for this canon involves Warden!Amell sacrificing herself, just in case you can't tell. I wept a little tear for poor Alistair as I wrote this, which is somewhat pathetic, but there you have it.
> 
> [8] According to party banter, Isabela sends Bethany pornographic novels to keep her company, and Bethany remarks that unfortunately, they were confiscated for being non-curricular. She does imply having enjoyed them, though.
> 
> [9] Ella is the mage nearly killed by Justice in the assault on Ser Alric. It's mentioned that she and Bethany are friends. Emile is, of course, Emile de Launcet. Marta is a fabrication, but every group of friends needs a gossip, I think.
> 
> [10] Why yes, that is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it Hawke/Isabela reference. I can't help it.
> 
> [11] Both Hawke and Anders actually suggest that Bethany run away during Legacy; Bethany tells Anders that she does not feel leashed, and she tells her sister that she is comfortable in the Circle.
> 
> [12] I started out feeling like writing this was a huge chore to be gotten through, but on the flip side, I wanted to give the giftee what she really wanted, as opposed to some half-hearted attempt, so after fretting about it for weeks, I finally dove in. I spent a great deal of time on her childhood and adolescence, because the giftee wanted anything Bethany, and because I like looking back in time at a character's formative years. As I brought in Cullen and brought the story to a close, I found that while I will not be waving the Cullen/Bethany flag at parties (if there are such parties, anyhow), I'm pretty happy with how this came out. I know it isn't unbridled lust/ fumbling with clothing in a linen closet, but I thought the romance of it would be utterly destroyed if I went there, so... I didn't Now, all I can do is hope that my efforts make someone smile!


End file.
